


Maladjusted

by marieincolour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mild Kink, Prompt Fic, Sick!Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:57:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marieincolour/pseuds/marieincolour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a cold, and he's absolutely thrilled at the concept. Turns out he's as much of a fan of Sick!Dean/Caring!Sam as all of us!<br/>This is part fluff and part angst. Sort of. Oh, and part slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maladjusted

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [summer themed Dean H/C comment meme.](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/679457.html) Prompt can be found here
> 
>  
> 
> I don't own Supernatural. I'm merely borrowing, and I'm certainly not making any money on this.

**Maladjusted**  
  
There's a self consciousness about most kinks. Dean knows that only too well, is only too aware of it. 

Why he likes what he likes he couldn't tell you. Not at all, doesn't have the faintest idea. And yet, even as he's unable to recall when this all started he remembers always feeling embarrassed and far too aware of how strange he is.

Not when he was younger, really. Not _ashamed._ Just aware that you didn't tell people that you couldn't wait to get sick. That sometimes, just sometimes, you positioned yourself close to people to catch their colds. 

Once, back in elementary, he licked a fork coming from someone with a cold. Standing with his back to the room, having made sure no one was watching. 

And the knowledge, innate and instinctive, that this was something to hide stuck with him churned along with the germs in his stomach. 

Back then it was Sam, Dad and himself. Being sick meant a day at home. Maybe it meant Dad coming home early, staying a day longer. Not leaving them alone. Tea, red cough syrup that tasted of fake cherries. It meant that his manly-man dad would maybe let him cuddle, or sit on his lap. He remembers Sam making him a cup of tea too weak and sweet to drink, and John telling him it's the thought that counts while Sammy sticks out his bottom lip as far as it'll go. Back then he just wanted to be sick for the attention and special treatment.

Sometimes it meant hours alone on the couch, miserable and sweaty. 

Sometimes it meant going to school despite the aches and pains, simply because anything was better than “home”. 

And then things changed. Dad.. Dad died. Left, then died. And Sam. Sam left, and then came back. Dean got him back for _real_ and in ways he hadn't dared to dream of. 

  
In later years, when they'd get two rooms and Dad would snore the pictures off the walls in his own space, getting sick and watching naked ladies on TV while Sam bitched and moaned about how tacky their lives were wasn't the only thing that made the pit of his stomach twist with violent butterflies. He hadn't expected that to come back, that intensity, but it was like slipping into an old pair of jeans. Worn to fit you, to mold themselves against you. Soft, welcoming. Just.. Yours. 

However much he'd expected Sam to one day come back (though feared with everything he had that he wouldn't), he hadn't dared to hope that Sam would come _back._

  
This obsession he'd always had with sickness and injuries, the reason he can do stitches better than anyone and the reason Sam rarely needs the hospital joined with this need that's living inside him somewhere. The one he never acknowledges in full daylight, and is only there for a few minutes when his brain grows honest and uncovered right before he goes to sleep. That moment where you forget you have secrets, because they're all just thoughts in your head anyway.

  
Somewhere along the way his fascination with everything medical joined his need for attention and contact and intimacy with his brother, and he thinks there might be something wrong with the way he communicates with people. Entertains the idea that _surely_ there are simpler ways of getting comfort. That illness being way he can allow himself to want it or need it from other people, or want or need other people at all is just a _tiny_ bit misunderstood.

  
Logically he knows that getting sick and having Sam carry some of his load and “care” for him, however far away they are from cold cloths on his forehead and careful monitoring of his situation with a face brimming with sympathy, that caring doesn't mean Sam loves him _more_. It's not necessarily a show of love at all, actually, because who likes hanging out with sick people? 

Dean just likes the attention.

  
It doesn't really matter. He's maladjusted and perfectly fine with it. Most of the time. 

  
They spend a cold Friday night digging up a grave. And unlike what most people think, digging up a grave isn't just a few shovels of earth and a coffin. It's hours of back-breaking work digging that hole, and while doing it you're very aware that you're standing on ground that might any moment cave in.

Sometimes the graves aren't aligned with the grave stones, and they miss. Have to dig up another foot to whichever direction they've gone wrong before they can reach the rotted wood, and sometimes they hit a family grave. 

Fucking family graves. If Dean's ever buried, he's getting buried alone just to make it easier for whichever fucker has to burn him if he comes back. It's hot and sticky and rainy out, and Dean's working against a headache and a bone weariness he blames on the heat.

His ankle caves in through two coffins stacked neatly (probably) on top of each other, the wood rotted through. Newer coffins are sturdier, but it makes for worse burning. See? There's a science to grave digging. And of course, it's easy enough to figure out which body they have to burn by counting the names on the family grave stone from the top down.

  
And of course this one is on the bottom. 

  
His ankle throbs violently after just a moment, which is long enough for him to think “This is going to hurt”. And then it does. Like a mother fucker. He slaps one hand down to it, meets only the wood of the coffin around it and knows he's ankle deep in corpse. Throws the other arm up around his eyes to shield himself from everything else, allow himself a moment of privacy as his face crumples with pain. His shovel is forgotten on the ground, barely visible in the dim light from their flashlight. They keep light to a minimum. It doesn't make grave digging more fun.

Neither does the light sprinkle of rain that makes everything wet enough to be annoying, but not wet enough to cool him down in the heat. It's like standing in a kettle full of boiling water, he thinks. Fucking summer. Fucking fucked up heat fucking wave of fucking doom. 

  
Sam pulls him up. Dean sits on the wet grass, his face greasy with sweat and rain and watches as his brother burns all four bodies like a bonfire until there's a blast of dead ghost, arms glistening with dark dirt and hard work. Keeps watch as Sam curses him for stepping through two coffins and getting the bones all mixed up in each other and puts the fire out with a little fire extinguisher. 

  
He limps to his feet to help Sam place the lumps of grass back over the freshly turned earth. Hobbles after him to the car on legs unwilling to walk faster, and a head unwilling to be on the top of his body. Like gravity turned around, and all the blood in his body is pooling in his sinuses. There's a throb of excitement (sick?), and another throb of...

Something unfamiliar. He doesn't necessarily feel like this is the _best_ time to get sick, but is happy enough that the ankle (now feeling a lot better all of a sudden) provided a good enough excuse to let him sit in the grass and really _feel_ the way his health declines. 

  
For once he doesn't have a choice about getting sick. He doesn't nurse the possible cold, doesn't expose himself to cold air to make it come on faster. He goes back to the motel, gets chaperoned into the shower to rinse the dirt off while Sam tidies up and pulls out fresh clothes for him like he's an invalid and collapses on the bed in a hiss of mucus and stuffed nose and achy head to wait for gauze and peroxide. 

  
He doesn't think he's ever been this grateful for dry clothes, clean and crisp against damp and slightly clammy skin in his life. Sammy's hands are careful and soft as they clean out the deep cut on the back of his ankle, and Dean wants to sit up and poke at the wound. See how deep it is. How much blood there was, bask in it and..

He's just too tired. Too sleepy and heavy and comfortable now he's in bed. _Finally._ He falls asleep to the sounds of Sam clacking away at his laptop. 

  
He wakes up sometime in the early morning, which is pretty much what he _does_ when he gets sick. Sleeps through half the night, stays awake for a couple of hours feeling sorry for himself because he can't sleep, and then goes comatose for another three or four hours. 

Sam is wrapped around him like the clingiest body pillow in the world, Dean's head propped on his shoulder in a way that should help his breathing, but doesn't, his warm and sleep heavy body wrapped tightly around Dean's clammy one. He's shivering with cold that isn't real, can't be helped by warm baths or more clothes. It's lodged deep in his spine, running up and down like a freight train on sensitive nerves. 

He hardens somewhere down low, warm and unwelcome against Sam's thigh. Dean twists. Shivers. 

Moans, because he's miserable and however much he _wants_ this, he always forgets that normal people avoid getting sick for a reason. Which, in turn, sends him off with another one of those throbs that's lodged right underneath his belly button. 

  
He lies there for another few minutes, back to Sam. Feels one nostril block up now he's on his other side, shivers on his back where he's stretching the covers in a way that opens up for the cold air down between him and Sam. Sniffles. Shudders. Feels sorry for himself and pulls clammy boxers away from his skin. 

  
Wonders where the rest of his clothes went. 

  
And finally, even though his dick is pretty insistent that he should stay the fuck in bed and get off, he heads for the shower. The shower, which is accompanied by a chorus of angelic singing in his head and bathed in a golden light and expected to be warm and nice and keep him comfortable for just a few minutes.

  
It's the most beautiful cracked tiles he's ever seen. 

  
Sounds are somehow louder in the middle of the night. The tap running into the bottom of the tub is unbearably loud. Unbearably slow. His head feels dizzy where he's leaning over the side of the tub, so he sits on the toilet lid instead. Shivers a little as he takes off his boxers. 

Because somehow crawling into the tub is always nicer when he's _properly_ cold before he gets in.

His body pimples with goosebumps pretty much immediately.

  
The steam emanating from the tub sends his chest into convulsions, and he coughs hard, painfully into his elbow. Shakes with the after effects and pain, because it burns all the way up out of his chest. He sniffles, swallows down about a bucket of snot and then moans again, just in time to see the door open. 

  
He's painfully aware that he's sitting on a toilet lid without any clothes _at all_ at 4 in the morning, his nose red and painful, his eyes glassy with fever and exhaustion. He feels pathetic. 

And not in the throb below his belly button-kind of way, either. 

  
Sam sighs. Looks halfway amused and halfway concerned, his hair mussed on the side he's been sleeping, slightly greasy from hair wax on the other. He's huge, fills the doorway entirely. Looks hot and uncomfortable and annoyed that he's woken up before he wants to. His eyes stray to the tub and to Dean's nose, and his face goes all amused again. 

  
He's gone before Dean can gather what's up, blinking blearily against the harsh light over his head before he's back again, crouching before him with a pill jar and a handful of ibuprofen. Dean swallows them down, feels the chalky taste on his tongue before throwing back a shot of dark green liquid. NyQuil, he thinks happily. Smiles lazily up at Sam who's grinning down at him. 

  
And then Sam's pulling off his own boxers, too, though his dick is limp and uninterested against his thigh when he climbs into the tub, stacking too long legs up against the sides and convincing Dean to crawl in against his chest. Dean lodges himself in somehow, wondering how they're making it work, but happier now that his body is getting the heat it wants.  
  
“You're burning up” Sam mumbles, one hand moving in lazy circles over Dean's stomach, his mouth against his ear. 

“You didn't have to get out of bed” Dean replies, his head turning sideways to fit over Sam's shoulder. Watches Sam stack his legs up against the shower wall. 

Sam hums, his hand suddenly firm against Dean's forehead, dribbling water down the sides of his face and making sweaty skin feel damp with bath water. 

“'s okay” he says. Dean coughs painfully again, but Sam just keeps rubbing and humming against the top of his head, and the headache dissipates slowly. 

“I hate being sick” Dean says, because it's the thing to say when a cough turns painful and burning in front of people, and they've noticed your fever. It's the way to get attention and sympathy.

“No you don't” Sam answers easily, amused and safe against his back, and then his hand wanders lower. 

  
Somewhere in the back of his dazed mind it occurs to Dean that _this._ This right here is why he's amazed that Sam is back, and more present than he ever was in the past. That he's all grown up and all _done,_ and still he chooses to spend his prime in a tiny bathtub with his older brother who has a cold and is absolutely _thrilled_ at the concept. 

The fact that he's the oldest, supposed to be the decision maker and the boss fades in the moment, and he wonders if Sam isn't a manipulating little bastard, playing him the right way to make Dean think he's getting what he wants and Sam getting his way at the same time. 

  
But really, these thoughts are far too deep and depressing for the relief and happiness that fills him when Sam not only _sees right through him,_ but seems amused and happy to indulge his weird fantasies. 

  
“You do realize the world is just about melting, don't you?”

  
Dean hums, because Sam's hand is crawling even lower, rubbing slow circles against the smooth skin of his stomach, the pale part that never sees the sun an he couldn't care less about the polar bears right fucking now.

  
“And that you've spent the evening shivering and fucking _smiling?”_

  
Dean should blush here, right? He should. Probably, but all the blood in his body is busy and.. Oh. 

  
Sam's hand is warm and firm and moves with a kind of goal oriented energy Dean can't seem to dredge up, his body slow and lethargic and somehow disconnected from reality in a fevered haze. He's aware enough of where he is and what's going on, but doesn't have the surplus of energy to think about the consequences.

  
He hums again, turns his head sideways and listens to the soft sounds of water moving along with Sam's hand as it starts moving even further down, slow and just touching. Not.. Doing anything yet, and still the touch alone is enough to make Dean pant. 

  
When it moves upwards again, wraps itself around him with a firm grip and starts moving slowly, _so slowly,_ he briefly entertains the idea that he's too tired for this. Because really, he is, his eyes heavy and his head sleepy and slow against Sam's shoulder and chest, and yet the feeling is too nice when he manages to focus on it. Too good to turn away. 

But managing to stay in the present is almost too much for him at the moment, and even though Sam is doing all the physical work he's not excused from the mental work of getting himself off. 

  
And then Sam's other hand moves to his chest, holds him firmly and safely back against him and kisses his ear.

“Still warm” he mumbles, and Dean moves a tiny step closer to that cliff up ahead, closes his eyes tightly and focuses. _Focuses._

  
He shivers a little, the wet skin of his upper body cooling quickly in the air conditioned air of the motel room, and coughs miserably again even as Sam strokes him rhythmically, firmly. Faster and faster. 

The hand on his chest moves again, circling his nipples and his chest. Stoping for a moment to pinch and then moving on, and Dean finds himself groaning hoarsely. 

  
He tumbles, hard and unexpectedly against his stomach far sooner than he'll ever admit, because he's been halfway there for hours. The bath water mixes with the semen in a way that makes him want to hurl and giggle at the same time, but only has him shivering a little bit more and leaning a spinning head even more back against Sam. Sam, who's sitting up and pulling the plug with the toes of his right foot, squirming to get them upright to rinse them off in the shower. 

  
Dean finds himself leaning hard, his mind drifting and swimming while he balances on heavy and uncontrollable legs. Sam's hands are warm and safe against him, moving him this way and that. They rinse off and he yawns so hard he coughs himself blue in the face, and Sam strokes his back again, lets Dean lean on him like a girl and doesn't say a word on it.

  
And then there's bed. Cool and dry against clammy and wet skin, and Sam crawls in behind him. Is the big spoon like usual, because.. Well. He _is_ the big spoon, and Dean doesn't really mind. Prefers it, because he spends most nights looking over his shoulder if _he's_ the big spoon, trying to make sure the shadows are just shadows and not monsters. 

  
He coughs, and Sam sighs sympathetically. Dean's head shows him a clear picture of the situation for just a second, and the realization strikes that he's _all figured out._ Groans. 

“Sorry” he mumbles, not sure what he's sorry for because he didn't do anything _wrong,_ he's just kinda kinky, and while kinky fits his profile, kinky for fever isn't quite the handcuffs and leather people expect. He wonders when he stopped wanting to pretend to be cool and tough for Sammy, because he's embarrassed and _relieved._

Sam kisses his neck, and it's tender and girly and embarrassing all at once, but still nice and intimate and the way it's supposed to be between them when it's just the two of them in a dark room. 

“It's okay, Dean. Go to sleep.”

  
Embarrassment keeps him awake, his thoughts reeling long after his body has gone to sleep. He thinks maybe Sam notices, because when he says “Hate this” the next day after another bout of coughing that's left him panting and red in the car, his t-shirt soaked through with sweat even after the cold air of the diner, Sam doesn't say a word. 

It's another one of those things he can add to the list of “things we only do in the dark” he keeps tacked to his brain somewhere above his left ear.


End file.
